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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25619494">Been locked and you’re the key</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/caughtinanocean/pseuds/caughtinanocean'>caughtinanocean</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>North Star [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Friendship, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Love at First Sight, M/M, Meet-Cute, Nightmares, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Romance, Snark, Spies &amp; Secret Agents, Steve Rogers Has Issues, it's more of a meet-ugly tbh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:48:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,293</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25619494</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/caughtinanocean/pseuds/caughtinanocean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes meet precisely where you'd expect: punching the same asshole in an alley behind a bar. Unfortunately, falling in love isn't as simple as recovering an old lady's purse. </p><p>
  <i>“Is Bucky Barnes working tonight?” Steve asks the young woman checking IDs.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She looks him up and down, from boot to tight shirt to neat hair, and then sneers. “Why? Who the hell is asking?” She's got a faint French accent that adds a pretty lilt to her speech.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I'm, uh, a friend,” Steve fumbles.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Wrong lie, asshole. Bucky Barnes doesn't have any friends,” she says. “Get out.”</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>North Star [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868419</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>453</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. if this plane won't fly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you very much to the lovely <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo">mambo</a> for providing feedback! Title is from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sUw-sF4kOI8">"Ancient Water" by Future Islands</a>, as chosen by some of my very kind followers <a href="https://wintergaydar.tumblr.com/">on tumblr</a>. </p><p>The story is complete, but I've decided to post in chapters on a slightly mean whim! This AU is primarily based on Steve &amp; Bucky from the comics and some of their friends, but you don't need to know anything about the comics to read.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve Rogers runs a four minute and forty second mile, the product of obsessive conditioning, specialized military training, and the experimental medical treatment that cured his impressive collection of childhood illnesses. Evidently, the purse-snatcher Steve is pursuing runs a four minute and thirty second mile, the product of adrenaline and the kind of desperation that makes a man knock down a seventy-year-old woman for the contents of her handbag. Steve does not much sympathize with his problems, whatever they might be.</p>
<p>The thief pivots down an alley. It looks like a dead end. Either he was hoping to lose Steve, or he knows a way through. Steve speeds up.</p>
<p>In the alley, Steve finds his thief being stared down by a stranger. He's a few years younger than Steve, still lithe and boyishly handsome, a (carefully styled) insouciant wave of dark hair dripping onto his brow, and a careless cigarette between his fingers. He pulls the cigarette to his lips for a slow drag and looks from Steve, to the thief with the purse, and back again. “Let me guess: he stole that from an old lady.”</p>
<p>Steve nods, hypnotized by the curl of smoke that rises with his slow and steady exhale.</p>
<p>The stranger sighs — and then takes another drag — before squaring his shoulders. He moves like a big cat — predatory grace. “I,” he says, with the first punch, “don't like,” an uppercut, “assholes.” He finishes the thief with an elbow to the solar plexus and a hard punch to the stomach, and then bends to pick up the purse, which the thief yields with no resistance.</p>
<p>His cigarette is still lit.</p>
<p>The stranger walks towards Steve with the purse, and Steve moves to meet him in the middle. The handoff feels like lightning in the air before a storm — their fingers touch for a too-brief moment, callous-on-callous. </p>
<p>“Who are you?” Steve asks, all awed wonder. </p>
<p>The stranger looks him up and down — pausing where Steve’s shirt pulls tight around his chest and shoulders — and then dead in the eye. He looks as dazed as Steve feels. And fuck, his eyes — they're a brilliant and penetrating blue. </p>
<p>“Who the fuck’s asking?” he snarls. </p>
<p>He drops the cigarette and grinds it out beneath his heel as he walks away.</p>
<p>“Holy shit,” Steve says, to himself, and to the prone thief on the ground. “Holy shit.” </p>
<p>He goes, dutifully, to return the purse and hand the thief over to the police, but there's only one thing on his mind.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>It's the butterflies he's only ever felt with Peggy before. It's a low hum in his veins and an ache in his chest. It's — the six years since Steve turned eighteen and joined up have been all about the mission, all fight and no fun. Before that, he was mostly just sick (but still fighting). Love and sex and all the rest have been last on the list; somewhere under laundry and buying some new sketchbooks. </p>
<p>They are...much higher on the list than that, now.</p>
<p>It’s more than just simple desire. Steve wants to fill the empty night with the quiet whisper of getting to know him. Steve doesn’t tell anyone anything. He’d tell the blue-eyed stranger from the alley everything. </p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Steve is pretty sure that normal people call their friends about things like this — this being the perfect stranger who has captured Steve’s thoughts. However, as someone who joined a secret government organization when he was eighteen years old, Steve doesn't have any friends. His last real friend was his mom (but like, not in a Norman Bates way).</p>
<p>In lieu of friends, Steve has highly-trained SHIELD operatives or international allies with whom he occasionally works on missions. He supposes that will have to do. Namor is kind of a jerk — okay, really a jerk, and the prince of a mythological nation. Jim is in Europe on a mission and thus unreachable. Toro is in Europe, on a mission with Jim, and is also nineteen. Peggy is in London and also Steve’s ex. That leaves…well fuck, Namor. </p>
<p>“Rogers. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He sounds like it is literally anything but a pleasure. Steve hasn't said anything, but Namor is already bored.</p>
<p>“I met this guy,” Steve blurts out.</p>
<p>Namor hangs up.</p>
<p>Thirty seconds later, Namor calls back again. “For fuck’s sake, Rogers. Not you, too. You've always been a professional.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but,” Steve says.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” says Namor. “He was special. Let's get this over with, so you can be useful again.”</p>
<p>“He beat up this thief…”</p>
<p>Namor cuts Steve off about six minutes into the description. “I do not, under any circumstances, need to hear that much about his eyes. Unless one has been stolen, and I'm on the retrieval mission. What is his name?”</p>
<p>Steve responds with a nervous laugh.</p>
<p>“You don't know his name, wonderful. Where did you meet him?”</p>
<p>“Alley outside a bar.”</p>
<p>“<i>Which bar</i>? You're supposed to be the tactical mind of a generation, with an <i>eidetic memory</i>.”</p>
<p>“The Howling Commando. It's in Brooklyn.” </p>
<p>Namor hangs up. He does not call back this time.</p>
<p>Steve really, really wants to talk about the boy. (He does not call Peggy. She's his ex, and regardless of the friendship, that would be terrible).</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Namor calls three hours later. “James Buchanan Barnes, known most commonly as something called a ‘Bucky.’ Brown hair, blue fucking eyes. <i>Nineteen years old.</i>” That part is pointed. “Barback and occasional bouncer at The Howling Commando. Army brat. Born in Indiana. Raised mostly in New York and,” Namor laughs, “Camp Lehigh area in New Jersey. Mother died when he was ten; father died when he was twelve — training accident. One younger sister, taken in by family back in Indiana. He went to foster care. Troubled kid, hard life, group homes. He —” </p>
<p>“Stop,” Steve says. “I want to know about it when he tells me. Not before.”</p>
<p>“Christ,” Namor says. “No briefing. Going in blind. And I know you're not an idiot. You're gone.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” says Steve. “I'm gone.”</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Steve's visit to the Howling Commando is planned with no less strategy than one of his missions. The shirt — a tight plain tee-shirt (all he owns), pale grey, emphasizing the blue of Steve’s eyes (so he is told) and the musculature of his chest and shoulders (so he is told, often). The lines — witty, just flirtatious enough without being too forward. The objective — find Bucky Barnes and appease the burning, desperate thing that’s taking root in Steve’s heart. Find Bucky Barnes and make sure that he feels it, too. Find Bucky Barnes and never un-find him again. </p>
<p>The minute Steve steps into the bar, it all falls to pieces. For starters, Bucky is nowhere to be found. </p>
<p>“Is Bucky Barnes working tonight?” Steve asks the young woman checking IDs.</p>
<p>She looks him up and down, from boot to tight shirt to neat hair, and then sneers. “Why? Who the hell is asking?” She's got a faint French accent that adds a pretty lilt to her speech.</p>
<p>“I'm, uh, a friend,” Steve fumbles.</p>
<p>“Wrong lie, asshole. Bucky Barnes doesn't have any friends,” she says. “Get out.”</p>
<p>Steve steps out into the evening cool and into the shock of disappointment. This is different from planning a mission. His missions don't fail.</p>
<p>At the very least, there’s at least one person who has Bucky’s back. </p>
<p>—</p>
<p>The next night, Steve comes back, brown leather jacket over the white tee. “I'm Steve. Steve Rogers,” he tells the young woman at the door. “I swear I'm not trying to arrest him.” </p>
<p>She looks him up and down again, skeptical, but then her eyes catch something in his eyes, and she extends her hand. Steve shakes it; her grip is measured and firm. “Gretchen,” she says. “He’ll be here in an hour. You can wait, but you have to drink. And tip well.”</p>
<p>“Affirmative,” Steve says.</p>
<p>He can feel Gretchen watching him as he walks to the bar.</p>
<p>“Whiskey, rocks,” Steve says. This place is the kind of dive that pours a well without asking. He's not much of a drinker, so he's going to nurse it. It's six dollars. He tips the rest of a twenty. </p>
<p>The bartender, a barrel-chested man with an impressive mustache, gives Gretchen a nod.</p>
<p>Steve takes a sip and starts his wait.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Steve's heart rate picks up as the time ticks down. The thing is, Steve's heart doesn't beat this fast on an ambush. The thing is, he’s shot people with less apprehension than this. This is new, untarnished ground. </p>
<p>Bucky Barnes walks into the room precisely on time for his shift — not one minute early or one minute late. It feels like all the air has left the room, and Steve remembers what that's like.</p>
<p>He nods his hellos to his co-workers and takes his place behind the bar. And then he sees Steve. Time slows down; their eyes lock. Bucky Barnes gives off the careful impression of caring about nothing. Steve sees the hitch in his breath. Bucky stares at him like he is something magic, a mirage about to melt away. </p>
<p>“You,” Bucky mouths, and Steve smiles — at him, at the perfect boy from the alley, standing just across the bar, resplendent in the dim light.</p>
<p>They both keep staring for a long, perfect moment. Bucky is the one who breaks contact first. </p>
<p>Steve feels like he's just run an obstacle course. He finishes the whiskey.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Bucky’s eyes are cast down to the bar when he comes to take Steve’s glass. His knuckles brush against Steve’s, and it’s a spark as bright as licking a battery.  </p>
<p>“Name’s Steve Rogers,” Steve says. “That's who the hell is asking.”</p>
<p>Bucky’s hand tightens on the glass. He takes the first chance to head for the alley with his smokes.</p>
<p>Gretchen waves him over. “You should leave now,” she says.</p>
<p>Steve tries not to look crestfallen.</p>
<p>She shakes her head. “Trust me. Leave now, but come back tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Steve takes a moment to process the information and files it in his head as valuable intel from a knowledgeable source. He takes Gretchen’s advice and heads home.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Steve sleeps four hours a night, tops, the product of the things he has done for his country. That night, he sleeps less.</p>
<p>It's not unease, and it's not dreams, it's him lying awake and thinking of Bucky’s eyes, laser blue, looking into his, looking for his meaning. It's knowing he gets to come back and do it all again — see Bucky again, begin to know him. </p>
<p>—</p>
<p>The next evening, when Steve comes in, Gretchen is nowhere to be found. “It’s her day off,” the bartender says, at Steve’s confusion. “Bucky’s in his alley, smoking.” </p>
<p>Steve nods his thanks, and sits down at the bar. </p>
<p>The bartender shakes his head. “He worked a 12-8 today, so he’ll be on his way out soon. Tell you what — since you’re such a good tipper —.” He smirks, like he’s telling a joke Steve isn’t in on, and  then pulls a pack out of his breast pocket and hands Steve a cigarette. He points at the side door. “Go ask him for a light.” </p>
<p>Steve tucks the cigarette behind his ear, like he’s in an old movie. “Thank you…”</p>
<p>“Name’s Dum Dum Dugan.”</p>
<p>“Is Gretchen the only one around here who’s allowed to have a normal name?” Steve asks. </p>
<p>Dum Dum laughs. “I like you. Now get your ass out there before he finishes brooding.” </p>
<p>— </p>
<p>Steve braces himself before he steps out, for the sight of Bucky. He’s still not prepared. Bucky’s leaning, back (and one foot) propped against the wall, head tipped back to watch the overcast sky. The smoke from his cigarette rises towards the yellow sodium-bulb of the streetlight. He is a work of art. Steve wants to draw him (Steve hasn’t drawn a thing that wasn’t a tactical sketch in years). Steve wants to kiss from the sharp line of his jaw and down that long neck. </p>
<p>Steve wants — to stop staring at Bucky and talk to him — and so he shakes off the trance, and walks over to lean up against the wall by Bucky’s side, testing the relaxed posture (it’s new to him, after all the military training). “Hey,” he says. “Got a light?”</p>
<p>Bucky looks at him, half-stunned like Steve’s a revelation, before the flash gives way to the carefully-composed tableau. Steve knows, like he has known, that he is not the only one who feels this. He brings the cigarette up to his lips, like he has seen. Bucky’s lighter clicks, and Bucky brings the flame to the cigarette. It catches, and Steve burns with their almost-contact, like he’s been burning since they met, in this very spot, just a few days but somehow, a lifetime, ago. </p>
<p>Steve breathes in smoke and (mostly) succeeds at not coughing. “Thanks,” he says, his voice a little rough with it. </p>
<p>Bucky swallows, and breathes slow, like he’s counting. His tongue flicks out to lick his lips — red on red. Steve watches from the corner of his eye.</p>
<p>A minute of quiet doesn’t go by before Bucky turns to him, shoulders tight and eyes wild. “What the hell can you possibly want from me?” </p>
<p>Steve waits. Bucky’s not done.</p>
<p>“I asked around, and nobody knows you. I ain't got warrants, and I don't owe anybody shit. And look at you — what the fuck are you doing in this shithole bar in this shithole neighborhood?”</p>
<p>“Hey,” Steve says, “I happen to like this bar.”</p>
<p>Bucky stares at him, unamused.</p>
<p>Steve laughs a little, charmed by Bucky’s consternation. “I think you know why I'm here,” he says.</p>
<p>“How do you know what I know?” asks Bucky. “You don't know me. Assuming makes an ass, and all that.”</p>
<p>“You know,” Steve says, and he can’t help the grin, charmed by Bucky’s sass. “And I know you know.”</p>
<p>“Maybe I wanna hear you say it,” Bucky tells him, eyes cast down, grinding out his cigarette against the brick of the wall. He looks almost...shy, an expression Steve has not yet seen from him. </p>
<p>What Steve wants in that moment is to pull Bucky close and hold him there — something else new, because Steve is not drawn to touch that way — but it's not that time yet, for them. </p>
<p>“What do I want? Why am I here?” Steve says. “You, obviously.” </p>
<p>Bucky exhales, loud like a gasp, and then stomps off. For some reason, it doesn't feel like a bad reaction. </p>
<p>Steve goes inside for a drink. It seems like the thing to do.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Steve's halfway through his second whiskey when Dum Dum comes over and says, “He's off tomorrow. He’ll be back Saturday night.”</p>
<p>“That's probably good,” Steve says. He’s not disappointed — he’s not — because that would be ridiculous. “He needs the rest. And he seemed like he needed some time to digest.”</p>
<p>“Kid,” Dum Dum says. It's been a while since Steve felt young enough to be called that. “Anyone would need some time to digest you. And he'll need more. Bucky’s not great with his feelings”</p>
<p>Well, that makes two of them. Steve weighs his unusual life and his unusual job, the physique that everyone notices. “That's truer than you know,” he says.</p>
<p>Dum Dum just raises an eyebrow and pours another drink. </p>
<p>—</p>
<p>That night, Steve gets well and truly drunk for the second time since he was sixteen. It makes everything brighter, turns up the dial. It’s why Steve only drank the once after his mom died — it did the opposite of dulling the pain. There’s warm camaraderie inside the bar, and it stands in sharp relief against the backdrop of how alone Steve’s been for all these years. </p>
<p>He misses Bucky, like he shouldn’t miss someone he’s only just met — is still meeting. But this thing, this thing Steve feels for him and between them and about him is real. It’s real, and it stands in sharp relief against the backdrop of the nothing he has felt for so damn long.  </p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Steve sleeps four hours a night, tops, and a few stiff drinks can't change that. He wonders what these nights would be like, with someone in the bed next to him. He bought the California king to sprawl, but now he’d give up that bit of luxury — and gladly. </p>
<p>The apartment’s been barren with his grief for far too many years. He gave so many of his mother’s things away, cleared her closet, donated half the furniture, tucked her small collection of rings and simple chain necklaces into a drawer. It’s almost as bare as the boltholes he sometimes sleeps in during missions. </p>
<p>Steve hasn’t had the will to fill the space or the silence. Moving forward seemed like it would mean <i>forgetting</i>, and he couldn’t just do that. </p>
<p>But now, he falls asleep imagining what the kitchen might look like with a breakfast nook. Moving on seems more like growing up. </p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Steve wakes up at six, frowning. The day yawns before him, empty— no missions and no plans and no chance to try and see Bucky. He thinks of calling Fury, getting sent somewhere, but who knows how long he’d be gone. Normally, that’s not a problem – the longer the mission, the better. </p>
<p>Except — there was the way Bucky had looked at him in the dim light of the bar; Bucky’s bruised knuckles on the back of his hand; the way he fought in an alley; the way his coworkers protect him. Steve wants to know him, and for that — he has to stay. </p>
<p>He goes for a run: the customary ten miles. </p>
<p>He showers: four minutes — two hot, two cold. </p>
<p>He makes breakfast: six eggs, whole wheat toast, one green smoothie. </p>
<p>Steve gets dressed: grey henley, blue jeans. It’s now seven-thirty AM, the whole gaping chasm of the day still ahead. What did he do with a day off, before? </p>
<p>The answer is as sad as it is simple: nothing. Steve left his days empty, or he spent them working, training or traveling the world for missions. Sometimes, maybe, he read a book. It’s a sad reflection of what is, Steve has to admit, a pretty miserable (if colorful) life. </p>
<p>What do normal people do, when they have a free day? Well, they make plans with their friends. Steve still doesn’t really have those. Peggy is in London. Jim and Toro are done with their mission, but still not back from France. </p>
<p>Steve calls Namor. </p>
<p>Namor, shockingly, picks up. “What do you want, Rogers?”</p>
<p>“Are you in New York?”</p>
<p>Steve’s not sure what people do with their friends these days. He suggests tactical training. </p>
<p>Namor, while not in New York, is only just a very short private jet flight away, and stunned enough at Steve’s invitation to accept. </p>
<p>—</p>
<p>In hand-to-hand, Namor is more brutal than Steve, more willing to go for the jugular. Steve, however, has the advantage of raw, enhanced strength, and also the fight or die instinct that kicks in every time someone comes at him, a ground-in remainder from his sickly, scrawny youth. </p>
<p>Steve bests Namor handily, three times. </p>
<p>“I should get myself a shot of whatever those scientists put in you,” Namor says, wiping blood from his mouth. </p>
<p>“The only doctor that has successfully performed my procedure is dead,” Steve says, still breathing heavy. </p>
<p>“Right,” Namor says. “Your life is very depressing. Do you know how to fence?”</p>
<p>Unlike Namor, Steve wasn’t raised as royalty, and does not, in fact, know how to fence. But you never know what you’ll need on a mission, and Steve is always up for a challenge. </p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Namor wins, obviously, though he’s no longer comfortable with the margin of victory the third time around.</p>
<p>“What do people do after this, normally?” Steve asks. He tries not to sound as sheepish about not knowing as he feels.</p>
<p>Namor shakes his head, dripping sweat. “<i>Depressing</i>. Well, you could probably run a couple of miles and bench-press a fallen tree.”</p>
<p>He’s not wrong. </p>
<p>“But I’m famished,” Namor says. “I pity you. This is a new emotion for me, because normally I don’t care about the sad lives of surface-dwellers. Let us go and eat.” </p>
<p>“Aren’t all emotions new for you,” Steve says. </p>
<p>Namor doesn’t laugh, but his mouth twitches, which Steve thinks is the equivalent for him. Maybe that’s normal for the rulers of secret undersea kingdoms. </p>
<p>—</p>
<p>The lunch spot of Namor’s choice is something obscenely fancy, where you need reservations three months out unless you’re...literally royalty. </p>
<p>It’s a seven-course prix fixe meal composed of delicate bites and elegant, art-nouveau platings. The food is good, even if Steve isn’t sure he understands it. </p>
<p>“I deeply appreciate you keeping your mouth shut about your blue-eyed obsession all afternoon,” Namor says, disdainfully sipping an old-fashioned. “Now spill.”</p>
<p>Steve stares at him. </p>
<p>“It is polite,” Namor says, “when a coworker provides you with valuable intel that might help make your tragic life a little bit less tragic, to update said coworker on whether or not your fumbling attempts at seduction are working.”</p>
<p>It clicks, and Steve grins. “You’re rooting for me!”</p>
<p>Namor rolls his eyes. “He is one missed paycheck from being a street urchin, and you are a secret agent who also happens to be a classical sculpture someone saw fit to imbue with something resembling a personality. You don’t need a cheer section.”</p>
<p>“Deny it all you want,” Steve says, still grinning. “I’m working on it! It’s going well, I think.”</p>
<p>“You will benefit from a stable domestic life,” says Namor. “It will improve your performance in the field.”</p>
<p>Steve is still laughing when they bring the next course, which is some kind of small egg perched on a spoon.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>As it turns out, a day without a mission doesn’t have to be a day wasted.</p>
<p>Steve thinks, with the feeling of sunshine on his skin, that it might, perhaps, be worth trying to have friends.</p>
<p>It’s been hard, since his mom died, to care about anything. He grew up alone, and he figured that’s how it would stay. Peggy was the first and only person to break through the ice – until Bucky. </p>
<p><i>Friends</i>, Steve thinks, <i>I should have friends</i>. </p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Steve tries on all three of his brown leather jackets. He’s so close, so close to their next meeting, and Steve is not sure of anything, except the course he’s on. Steve is not sure of anything, but he’s sure of the way that Bucky looked at him through the smoke, in the alley where they met, have been meeting. This is the moment, the moment before he steps into the rest of his damn life. </p>
<p>Steve steps into the bar that night, heart racing, chest tight, still messing with the damn leather jacket. </p>
<p>“Oh, thank fuck,” says Gretchen, when she sees him. </p>
<p>It’s not the welcome Steve was expecting. </p>
<p>“If I had to watch Bucky try and pretend he wasn’t watching the fucking door for another minute, I was going to <i>scream</i>,” she says. </p>
<p>The tightness in Steve’s chest explodes into something bright and brilliant. Steve thinks it might be joy, but he’s forgotten that particular emotion. </p>
<p>Bucky is behind the bar, resolutely not looking at the door, or Steve, and polishing a glass with a put-on look of concentration. Steve’s pretty sure none of the glasses in this bar have ever been that clean before. He’s wearing a denim jacket with patches and a pack of cigarettes in the front pocket. Steve moves towards him, unbidden. </p>
<p>He walks to the bar, each step a weight, and sits down. Bucky’s mouth curls, unbidden. </p>
<p>Dum Dum comes up to him. “What’ll it be tonight, big guy?” </p>
<p>Steve tries to tear his eyes from Bucky, but cannot. “Whiskey, rocks,” he says. </p>
<p>Bucky’s blue eyes sparkle with approval in the dim bar light. He bites his full lip, and Steve stops breathing. </p>
<p>Dum Dum pours Steve’s drink with an amused smile.</p>
<p>Steve takes a sip, still staring. When he talks, it’s instinct. “New York,” Steve says. “I was born in New York. Brooklyn, born and raised.” He exaggerates his accent, trying to get a laugh. </p>
<p>Bucky bites his lip, trying to keep from smiling. “Shelbyville, Indiana.” </p>
<p>Steve raises an eyebrow. </p>
<p>Bucky flips him off. “I grew up in New York, mostly.”</p>
<p>Steve knows these things about Bucky already, from Namor’s briefing, but he wants to put the two of them on even ground. “Fourth of July,” Steve says. </p>
<p>Bucky tries not to look confused. </p>
<p>“My birthday,” Steve tells him. “I’m twenty-four.” </p>
<p>Bucky looks at him and <i>laughs</i>. “Jesus Christ. Look at you! Of course you were born on the Fourth of July. You’re like an ad for apple pie and white picket fences. March 10th. I’m nineteen.” </p>
<p>“Baby,” Steve says. Oh, Steve didn’t mean it like that, but it feels good to call him that.</p>
<p>“Old man,” Bucky shoots back, fighting a smile.  </p>
<p>The bar is starting to fill up, but the Saturday night crowd still hasn’t quite arrived. It’s mostly regulars, parked at their usual spots. Bucky looks at Dum Dum, who nods — and then Bucky walks, casual, to Steve’s side of the bar and sits on the empty stool beside him.</p>
<p>He lounges, like the whole damn place is his, one elbow on the bar, stance wide. His knee brushes up against Steve’s. </p>
<p>Steve tries not to let his jaw drop. Steve resolutely stares at Bucky’s handsome face, and not his muscular thighs. </p>
<p>“I’m an orphan with no hobbies. This game isn’t going to go very far,” Bucky says, with a sarcastic laugh. </p>
<p>“Same,” Steve says. “No siblings, either.” </p>
<p>Bucky looks at him, then, really looks. The sass is (temporarily, Steve is sure) gone. “I’ve got you beat there. One sister. Haven’t — seen her in a long time, but.” </p>
<p>“Older or younger?” Steve asks. </p>
<p>Bucky is wistful when he says, “Younger.”</p>
<p>“My dad was a soldier,” Steve says. “I never met him. My mom was a nurse.”</p>
<p>“I’m an army brat,” Bucky says. “Both of my parents were military. Grew up on bases till…”</p>
<p>Steve is a trained military operative working for a secret government agency. He’s received commendations for his determination, for turning around dire situations through sheer force of will. In that moment, he is helpless. He cannot help himself. Steve reaches out to touch Bucky’s hand — to offer some kind of comforting gesture.</p>
<p>Bucky flinches, surprised, but shakes his head when Steve jerks away.</p>
<p>Steve strokes the scars on his knuckles. It’s an almost unbearable intimacy, just this soft touch; just the dark, noisy bar. Steve’s heartbeat quickens. His heart pounds in his ears. </p>
<p>Bucky’s eyes are cast down, down at the bar, down at their hands.</p>
<p>It is readily apparent that no one has comforted Bucky in a long, long time. </p>
<p>“I need — “ Bucky says. “I need a cigarette. Alone please.” He looks apologetic, but he’s pale, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt with the hand that Steve’s not holding. </p>
<p>Steve feels as flustered as Bucky looks. He understands. “I’ll be here,” Steve promises. </p>
<p>The woman who sits next to Steve the moment Bucky walks away is all curves, each stitch of clothes skin-tight. “This seat taken?” she says — when she has already taken it. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Steve says. </p>
<p>She laughs, head thrown back, lips parted. “Your friend should know better than to leave a boy like you alone in a place like this.”</p>
<p>Steve hasn’t spoken to a woman who isn’t Peggy, his mother, or in the chain of command for more than five minutes – not that he hasn’t <i>wanted to</i>, but first he was a scrawny outcast, and then there was the terrible grief and the all-consuming job. He hasn’t had <i>practice</i>. He is not, what one might call, prepared for this. She needs to leave before Bucky comes back from his break, but Steve has no idea how to make her. </p>
<p>“Normally,” she says, “I charge. For you, I’d make an exception.” </p>
<p>Steve almost falls off his bar stool. “That’s. Very flattering,” he manages. </p>
<p>And that’s when Bucky comes back in — Steve, damn his hearing, damn his training, can hear his footfall, and is powerless to do a thing but turn and watch. </p>
<p>Bucky stomps up to him, eyes gone cold. “Is that — is that what you think I am?” he says. “You come here, throw money around, make eyes, cause you think I’m for sale?” He turns to the woman. “No offense.” </p>
<p>She laughs. “None taken.” </p>
<p>“No,” Steve sputters. “That’s not it at all. You know that’s not it.” </p>
<p>Bucky’s glare is ice, and his voice is iron when he says. “Get out. Get out and don’t fucking come back.” </p>
<p>Steve never gives up. He never stays down in a fight. However, the last thing he’d ever want to do is force this. Bucky said leave, and that means it’s over. When he walks the whole way home, heart aching, it feels like surrender.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. then i'll drive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Steve’s rejected his third pack of socialites when he spots a stern, familiar walk on the beach. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>He falls off his orange chaise-lounge. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>She’s dressed to kill, in a vintage-inspired swimsuit and cat-eye glasses, and a silky cover-up tied around her waist. Her lips are red, and she looks pissed.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter titles (and series title) are from "North Star" by Future Islands.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If meeting Bucky was a light, what comes now is <i>void</i>. </p><p>At least, when he and Peggy went their separate ways, Steve knew that they’d <i>tried</i>. Peggy had her career, and he had his home, and they’d cared for each other, but not enough — not enough to sacrifice for it. They’d come to that conclusion together, with consideration for one another and with care. She’s the closest thing Steve’s got to a friend. </p><p>Losing Bucky before they’d had a chance to even start — it sucks. It just sucks. </p><p>Steve does what he’s been doing with his pain for the last six years: he calls Nick Fury. “You got anything for me, Commander?”</p><p>“And here I thought someone had managed to teach you how to take some well-earned rest,” Fury says. </p><p>“Me, too,” Steve says, with a sigh even he can admit is dramatic. </p><p>“Honestly, Rogers, there’s nothing ready that requires your specific talents,” Fury says. </p><p>“No super-villains?” </p><p>“No.”</p><p>“What about Neo-Nazis? Human trafficking rings? Kidnapped diplomats?” </p><p>“Nothing with solid-enough intel,” Fury says. </p><p>Steve groans. </p><p>“I’ll be sure to let our deep-cover spies know that they’re not working fast enough for your liking,” Fury says. “Or tell our diplomats to be less careful about their security because Steve Rogers is bored.” </p><p>“Anything?”</p><p>“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Fury. </p><p>— </p><p>Steve takes a shitty mission — a milk run tracking a fugitive gun-runner in France, something any agent could do — just to do <i>something</i>. He doesn’t even get to beat the guy up. </p><p>Afterwards, he lays out on the beautiful, white-sand expanse of a beach in Nice and sulks. It had been — so long — since he wanted anything, wanted anyone, and the future with Bucky, that night at the bar, had seemed close enough to touch. </p><p>Steve watches the light dance on the blue, rippling sea. It’s beautiful — so beautiful, and he can’t even enjoy it because he’s too busy being maudlin. He’s shirtless (also failing to enjoy the warm sun on his skin) and thus, keeps being invited to yacht parties by groups of socialites. </p><p>Steve’s rejected his third pack of socialites when he spots a stern, familiar walk on the beach. </p><p>He falls off his orange chaise-lounge. </p><p>She’s dressed to kill, in a vintage-inspired swimsuit and cat-eye glasses, and a silky cover-up tied around her waist. Her lips are red, and she looks pissed. “Peggy,” Steve says, climbing back onto his chaise-lounge. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“Namor, Steve?” she says. “You went to <i>Namor</i> for advice?” </p><p>Steve shrugs and looks down, sheepish. “Well, it would have been rude to ask you,” he tells her. </p><p>Peggy sighs. “That’s — very considerate. But we’re friends, Steven. I meant that. And you know about my life.” </p><p>“Gabe’s great,” Steve says, earnest, if a little automatic. “I’m very happy for you.” </p><p>“I want to be happy for you, too, darling,” says Peggy. “Besides, Namor is an incorrigible gossip.” </p><p>She sits down on the chaise-lounge beside him. </p><p>Steve looks at her, and laughs. “I really need friends, Peg.” </p><p>Peggy smiles at him, fond. “I’ve been telling you that for <i>years</i>, Steve. You just don’t listen to anybody but your own damn self.” </p><p>“That’s...probably true,” says Steve. Now’s not the time to be obtuse, and he can’t bullshit Peggy anyways. “Do I even want to know how you found me here?” </p><p>“A woman needs her mystery. Now, enough about that. Tell me about your young friend.”</p><p>Steve tells Peggy everything, because she asked.</p><p>“It sounds,” she says, “like meeting him made you very happy.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Steve tells her, listless. “Yeah.” </p><p>“I’ve not known you to give up quite that easily,” she says. </p><p>Steve just shrugs. </p><p>“Do you know why he pushed you away like that?” she says. </p><p>Steve looks at her, mournful. “Because he thought I thought he was a...what’s the polite terminology?” </p><p>“Sex worker,” Peggy says. “And that’s not the real reason, and you know it.” </p><p>Steve just shrugs again. </p><p>Peggy sighs. A soft breeze ruffles her hair and makes the silk of her wrap brush up against Steve’s skin.  “You’re far too smart for me to have to spell it out for you.” </p><p>“You’re giving me too much credit, Pegs,” Steve says. He’s missed her.</p><p>She laughs. It’s not unkind. “I forget, sometimes, how young you are. Let me tell you something about younger men, Steven. I have some experience in the area, you see.”</p><p>“Hey,” Steve says. It’s about all the defense he can muster right now. </p><p>Peggy arches one perfect eyebrow. “Sometimes, they don’t know how to be vulnerable. It scares them. He was vulnerable with you, and so he looked for a reason — any reason — to discount you.” </p><p>“Oh,” Steve says. <i>Oh.</i> </p><p>Peggy looks out at the sea. He can’t see her eyes through the glasses, but he imagines she is wistful. “You can’t force him to...go somewhere he isn’t ready to go,” she says. “But I think you should give it another try.” </p><p>The moment is taut between them. “Do you — do you wish you’d given it another try?” Steve asks her. </p><p>“I,” Peggy says, “have made my share of mistakes. Learn from them.” </p><p>They sit together for a long moment, silent in new understanding. It feels, Steve thinks, like closure. </p><p>—</p><p>Steve returns home with a sunburn and a lot to think about. </p><p>Had it really been fear, with Peggy? Steve hadn’t felt afraid. But then again, the first few years after his mother’s death, he hadn’t felt much of anything at all. </p><p>Perhaps, if Steve had met Peggy a year or three later, he might have been enough in love to leave New York and follow her around the world, be the wake to her waves. But the window of their opportunity was only ever brief — opportunities, they’re funny that way. </p><p>Fuck, Steve needs to go see Bucky again. </p><p>—</p><p>There’s a difference between knowing what you’re supposed to do and actually doing it. Not, generally, however, for Steve. Steve decides and acts in the same breath, in the same heartbeat — if it’s right, he doesn’t stop to ponder consequence. </p><p>Steve has no idea what to do with hesitation. </p><p>Why, then, is he hesitating?</p><p>Three days after concluding that the notion of wooing Bucky deserves another shot, Steve sulks at home, patching up his punching bag. </p><p>The thing is, he really doesn’t want to be a creep. And sure, maybe Peggy’s right — that tends to be the case, where Peggy is concerned — but what if Bucky meant it? What if their window, in Bucky’s eyes, has closed, and what if Bucky would prefer to forget all about the blonde stranger that kept showing up at his bar and making eyes at him, and what if Steve was the only one who felt it, if Bucky was uncomfortable the whole entire time — </p><p>Steve’s phone rings. It’s an unknown number, which means it could be anyone Steve actually knows. It’s 6:28 on a Sunday afternoon, the evening light just beginning to turn gold, and Steve will remember this moment, many times, and with wonder. </p><p>“Hi,” says the voice on the other end of the line, and that voice — Steve’s heart races. Steve has been hearing that voice in his damn dreams. It’s Bucky. He sounds — off — sheepish, uncomfortable, which tempers Steve’s excitement — but not as much as it should. </p><p>“How,” Steve says, “did you get my number?” It’s the first of a long list of questions — first, because his phone number is technically a state secret. </p><p>“Dum Dum,” Bucky says. “Bartenders know everything,” then, not into the phone, “Or at least they think they do!” He sighs. </p><p>Steve’s second question isn’t a question: “I thought you never wanted to see me again.” </p><p>“Yes,” Bucky says, “No. I don’t know.” </p><p>This is an improvement, and Steve will take it. “Is everything okay?” he asks. </p><p>“My coworkers are holding me captive,” Bucky says. He sounds resigned, rather than panicked, but Steve is still all set to grab tactical gear when Bucky adds. “Wait. No. Please don’t come after them with all the weapons you so clearly own.”</p><p>Steve assumes, then, that the captivity is metaphorical. </p><p>“The other barback — fucking asshole — no-showed on Friday, so I’ve been working his shifts and mine for the weekend, since this piece of shit bar can’t stand to get any worse. I guess I haven’t slept in...two days?”</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Bucky,” Steve says, ready to march into the bar and give everyone there a stern talking to about labor laws – though, to be fair, they’ve been ignoring those the entire time that Bucky’s worked there. </p><p>That would explain Bucky sounding off. </p><p>“I’m fine, really. I could totally finish my shift, but these assholes are making me go home.” </p><p>Steve is unclear where he fits into this picture, but he’s willing to wait as long as it takes to find out. </p><p>“But!” Bucky says. “They also won’t let me leave alone! Because the neighborhood I live in is ‘fucking dangerous,’ and I’m ‘going to get mugged’ ‘assuming I even make it that far.’”</p><p>He’s clearly drunk on sleep-deprivation and also abusing air-quotes. It’s...very cute, a word Steve has not associated with Bucky thus far. </p><p>“They won’t let me work, and they won’t let me leave, and since I don’t exactly have anyone else to call, here we are,” Bucky says. He sounds — pretty upset, actually. </p><p>Steve realizes, then, that Bucky is asking for help. It’s...clearly not an easy thing for him to do. Steve doesn’t tease him, doesn’t make him say the words. He just says, “I’ll be right there.” </p><p>—</p><p>Steve runs a four minute and forty-second mile, and he runs to the bar, through the city, as the fading light turns a deeper shade of gold and pinks and deep plums color the sky. He can’t help it. Bucky needs him. Bucky needs <i>him</i>. His fellow judgmental New Yorkers can suck it. </p><p>Steve arrives at the bar, not half an hour later, damp with sweat, hair mussed. At least, Steve thinks, Bucky probably won’t look his best either. </p><p>Steve’s wrong, of course. </p><p>He steps inside, the last bit of twilight fading behind him. Bucky is leaned up against the bar, where Gretchen is staring him down like a flight risk. There are shadows underneath his eyes, and his hair looks like something nested in it. One sleeve of his denim jacket is unrolled, and his full mouth is pursed in frustration. </p><p>He’s the most beautiful person Steve has ever seen. Looking at him makes Steve’s heart ache. How long has it been — a week? Two weeks? A lifetime? </p><p>“I haven’t seen you this out of it since the first week you worked here,” Gretchen says. “Remember, Timmy gave you all that rum to celebrate your birthday when he found out — ”  </p><p>“<i>Timmy</i>,” Bucky says, almost smiling. </p><p>“<i>Merde</i>,” she says.</p><p>“Only Frenchie’s allowed to call me that,” Dum Dum says. “Even if you’re gloomy and pining for — well, look who’s here.” </p><p>When Bucky spots Steve, he swallows. His fingers curve on the bar. He looks down, the hard line of his mouth softening. </p><p>Steve tracks each movement, though he’s not sure what they mean. He wants to read meaning into every synapse, from the tired line of Bucky’s spine to his bitten-down nails. </p><p>“Hi,” Steve says.</p><p>Bucky straightens up — if you can call it that — and then nearly goes down when Dum Dum claps him on the back. “You,” he says. “You came.” </p><p>“Told you already,” Steve says. “I like this bar.” </p><p>Bucky’s shoulders, which had been tensed, relax. “Yeah, well...This bar likes you, too.” </p><p>“It’s good to be back,” Steve says, looking into his blue eyes, heart racing. “Would have missed the shitty whiskey.” </p><p>“I’m glad...that you’ll be here to drink it.” </p><p>Bucky’s swaying on his feet. It doesn’t take away from the moment, but it reminds Steve that there’s work to be done.</p><p>“Let’s get you home,” Steve says.</p><p>“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Yeah.” </p><p>—</p><p>They step outside, where streetlight has replaced twilight. Steve considers placing a hand on the small of Bucky’s back and thinks better of it: it’s a warm evening, and if Steve touches Bucky, he might just disappear into night air and dreams.</p><p>“I can call us a cab,” Steve says. </p><p>Bucky just glares at him. </p><p>“Blink once for yes and twice for no,” Steve tells him.</p><p>Bucky gives him the finger. “I can walk.” To demonstrate the ability, he lurches forward and then stumbles.</p><p>Steve catches him by the arm before he can fall, and how about that? Bucky is real, his bicep solid (and firm…) beneath Steve’s fingers. “It’s your choice;” Steve says, still holding on. “It’s a nice night, and we can walk if you want to. Just tell me where to go.”</p><p>“I like the walk,” Bucky says.</p><p>Steve is still touching him, and Bucky leans in a little, sways towards Steve as if he’s being pulled.</p><p>“We’ll walk,” Steve promises. “We’ll walk.”</p><p>Bucky goes, and so Steve has to let go. They walk together, so close Steve can feel the heat of him. </p><p>Bucky’s hair shines beneath the streetlights. Steve is captivated. “Tell me something,” Steve says. </p><p>Bucky shivers. “What do you want me to say?” </p><p>Steve wraps an arm around him. Bucky breathes in, sharp like longing. “Anything,” Steve says. “Everything.” </p><p>Bucky laughs. “Pal, you have no idea. No idea.” </p><p>“But I want to,” Steve says. He strokes the Bucky’s arm through the denim jacket. “I can handle it, don’t worry.” </p><p>Bucky leans his head against Steve’s shoulder. The sweetness of it takes Steve’s breath away. “We’ll see,” Bucky tells him. “We’ll see.”</p><p>In that moment, walking together, Steve sees the future more clearly than ever: waking up with his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck and his hand on the curve of Bucky’s ass, unhurried morning fucks, breakfast with the morning light streaming through the window, the hard line of Bucky’s body against his as they grapple in the gym, lunch at that pretty cafe that Steve always passes, but he won’t pass it, not anymore — ordering in, or cooking dinner together, <i>learning, a life. </i></p><p>“My mom’s name was Sarah,” Steve says. </p><p>“Winifred,” Bucky tells him. “My dad taught me how to throw my first punch, but she corrected my form.” </p><p>“I’m probably still punching wrong,” Steve says, laughing.</p><p>They laugh, then, together. </p><p>Steve wants to hold Bucky’s hand, but that would mean not holding him any longer. He stays. </p><p>They’re quiet for a moment, together. Steve watches Bucky’s face, illuminated by the lights of passing cars. The city is wild around them, itself, and fuck, must they be driving the strangers walking around and beside them to rage, taking up so much of the sidewalk, but Steve notices nothing, notices only him. Thoughts play over Bucky’s features, things that are unsaid, and Steve wants to know, but he thinks there will be time. </p><p>“My mom taught me how to stitch up a cut, though,” Steve tells him. </p><p>“She was a nurse, right?” Bucky asks, reaching up to hold Steve’s hand where it rests against his arm, and <i>oh</i>, he is perfect. </p><p>“Yep,” Steve says. </p><p>“Nurses are better than doctors,” Bucky says.</p><p>“Damn right.” </p><p>“It’s a long walk,” Bucky says. </p><p>“Mhm.” </p><p>“You don’t have to take me.” </p><p>Steve just raises an eyebrow. </p><p>“I’m fine on my own.” </p><p>Steve shakes his head. </p><p>“Really.”</p><p>Steve looks at him, then, and Bucky looks vulnerable, a look Steve knows on him now. “I’m with you,” Steve says. </p><p>Bucky bites his lip. </p><p>“Really,” Steve says. </p><p>Steve runs a four minute and forty second mile, but he walks now, by Bucky’s side.</p><p>—</p><p>Steve arrives at the entrance of Bucky’s rundown apartment building like he arrives at war zones. This is it: he can’t screw this up. This is his shot to woo Bucky and make the future that he can’t stop imagining real.</p><p>“Wanna come in?” Bucky asks. He detaches from Steve’s side and crosses his arms. “Digs ain’t much, but…”</p><p>“Of course,” Steve tells him.</p><p>Bucky’s apartment is a shoebox of a studio with yellowing walls, worn out carpet, and a tiny kitchenette. It’s impeccably organized, not one thing out of place. The mattress is on the floor, but it’s made with hospital corners. </p><p>Bucky lives here, so Steve loves it. “It’s nice,” he says.</p><p>Bucky laughs, and gives him the finger. “You’ve already seen everything, so there’s no point in a tour.”</p><p>“I haven’t seen the bathroom,” Steve says.</p><p>Bucky points at the lone door in the apartment with a deadpan, “It’s there.”</p><p>“Just checking,” Steve says.</p><p>“Don’t knock SRO living till you’ve tried it,” Bucky says, and then he loops his fingers in Steve’s belt loops, pulls Steve in close, and sinks to his knees. “Tour’s over. Time for the main event.”</p><p>Steve, in what anyone who knows him can attest is a rare occasion, is rendered incapable of speech. </p><p>Bucky starts undoing his belt.</p><p>Steve planned for a lot of contingencies for this evening and this — just wasn’t one of them. Fuck his prized tactical instinct because it’s clearly useless. What do you do when the boy you’ve been chasing is on his knees like a tired, dark-eyed fantasy?</p><p>Bucky unzips Steve’s jeans. “You ready to finally get everything you want?”</p><p>“You think this is everything I want from you?” Steve says, suddenly realizing.</p><p>Bucky winks. “Can’t fuck unless you’ve got condoms on you, so this’ll have to do for the night.”</p><p>“That’s not what I want, either,” Steve says, all of a sudden very sad, because Bucky should know. Bucky should know what he’s worth. </p><p>“What the fuck do you want from me?” Bucky’s still on his knees, looking up in infinite confusion. “If this ain’t it, why are you here?”</p><p>Fuck, Bucky really doesn’t see another option, another thing that Steve could want. Steve simmers with protective rage: who taught Bucky he had nothing more to give? But the creeping warmth inside Steve’s chest wins out, even beating righteous indignation. There’s no time to dwell, not when Steve can show Bucky instead.</p><p>“Bucky,” Steve says, “It’s not that I don’t want — “ he gestures at Bucky’s position, “But there’s no hurry. I want…so many other things.”</p><p>He offers Bucky a hand up. Bucky hesitates, and then takes it.</p><p>“Gimme one thing,” Bucky says, eyes bright and demanding. “I wanna know.” </p><p>Steve hesitates, and then tells him. “You’ve worked two straight days without any sleep, and you’ve been on your feet the whole time. Tonight, I just wanna sit on the couch with you and order pizza while you nap with your head on my shoulder.”</p><p>Bucky blinks. </p><p>Steve knows that what he has asked for is brazenly, brilliantly intimate. He wonders, for a long moment, if it is too much. Bucky is raw in his fatigue, but still hard to read. </p><p>“Okay,” Bucky says, finally. “Okay, but I have no idea how you plan on getting anybody to deliver to this garbage building. Also, I don’t have a couch.”</p><p>“Let me worry about the pizza,” Steve says. “And mattress is good enough for me if it’s good enough for you.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Bucky says, his mouth curling with just a hint of a smile. “Trust me pal, it’s good enough for me.” </p><p>—</p><p>Steve ends up sitting up in Bucky’s bed, Bucky’s head pillowed on his lap. The mattress is pushed up against the wall, and Steve is grateful for the grounding feel of it behind his back, because otherwise, he’d feel like he were floating. </p><p>“The mattress is shit,” Bucky says. “I could have warned you.” </p><p>“I’m happy right where I am, thanks,” Steve says. He runs a hand through Bucky’s hair. “You should sleep. I’ll wake you up when there’s pizza.”</p><p>“I’ll believe you’re getting pizza when it’s in my mouth,” Bucky says, trying to disguise a yawn by hiding his face against Steve’s thigh. </p><p>Steve laughs. “I’d never lie to you about pizza.” </p><p>“You’re not lying,” Bucky says, eyes fluttering, “Just fuckin’ naive.” </p><p>It’s been a long time since someone called Steve naive, and he doesn’t answer — just strokes Bucky’s hair as he drifts off. </p><p>It does take Steve a while to find someplace that will deliver to the building, but money wins out in the end, and Steve is sure that Bucky won’t complain about the extra sleep before dinner. </p><p>Bucky is sweet in sleep, young-looking and a little bit restless. Steve wants to watch over him always.</p><p>He wakes wide-eyed and ready for a fight when the delivery man comes to the door.</p><p>“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s just our food.”</p><p>“Motherfucker,” Bucky says, rubbing his eyes, “You actually found pizza. Go and pay him before someone takes it.”</p><p>“Damn right I found pizza,” Steve says. He grabs the pies (he ordered three), and sends the delivery guy on his way with a generous tip. </p><p>Steve climbs back into bed with Bucky. They eat in companionable silence. The food is from one of Steve’s favorite spots, with a shatteringly crisp crust, rich, flavorful sauce, and a bubbly coat of cheese, and it’s never tasted better. Eating it in bed with Bucky, who moans when he takes the first bite and then inhales three slices without really pausing for a single breath, is the greatest luxury Steve has allowed himself in years, maybe ever. </p><p>“Okay,” Bucky says, with his mouth full. “My plan for the night was good, but yours is better.”</p><p>“Not to brag, but I’m known for my strategic thinking,” Steve says.</p><p>“Why do I feel like that’s a lie?” Bucky says, leaning his head against Steve’s shoulder, eyelashes fluttering. He’s exhausted.</p><p>Steve finishes his fourth slice. He doesn’t want to leave Bucky here alone, not now and not ever, not when he could feed Bucky pizza and kiss him good morning instead. However, Steve knows that isn’t his call. “The rest of the pizza can be breakfast,” Steve says. “I can fridge it when you’re ready.”</p><p>Bucky hugs a pizza box. “Why can’t I just eat it and sleep at the same time?” </p><p>Steve laughs and then wonders how long it’s been since someone made him laugh the way that Bucky does. His heart gives an excited little twist. </p><p>Bucky takes one more slice and hands the pizza over. Steve takes another slice as well before bringing the remaining pizza to the fridge, dutiful. </p><p>He sits back down, heart racing. He gives himself until the end of the slice to decide. Steve knows what he wants to ask for, and he’s so afraid to hear a “no.” </p><p>Bravery, however, is not the absence of fear, and Steve Rogers is not a coward. “Want me to stay?” Steve asks.</p><p>“Yes,” Bucky says, “No. I don’t know.”</p><p>Steve reaches out and takes Bucky’s hand. Bucky is frozen, lost in clearly painful thought.</p><p>“There’s a reason I live alone,” Bucky says, his chin tilted up: a challenge. </p><p>“Hit me,” Steve says. “I can take it.”</p><p>Bucky smiles and winds up for a punch, and Steve laughs, and Bucky laughs, clear like a bell, thrilled his joke has landed. It’s one bright moment before he’s serious again. “I have nightmares,” Bucky says. “They weren’t a hit at the group home.”</p><p>“I’m military,” Steve says. “Takes more than that to scare me.” </p><p>“They’re loud!” Bucky tells him. </p><p>“So are explosions,” Steve says. </p><p>Bucky laughs, exasperated. “Okay. Yes. Yes, I want you to stay.” His eyes are so bright, for a moment, the most beautiful blue that Steve has ever seen, but then his face goes dark. Bucky looks at Steve’s hand, which is cradling his wrist. He swallows, turmoil on his face. “Look, Steve, this has been really nice, but you — you shouldn’t —- “ </p><p>He cuts himself off, voice shaking, but Steve still hears what he’s trying to say: <i>“care.” </i></p><p>“I’ve done,” Bucky says, “I’ve done a lot of ugly things to stay alive.” </p><p>Steve shakes his head. “No. Everything that’s kept you alive is beautiful.” </p><p>Bucky’s eyes are dark with emotion. Steve cannot stop touching him. </p><p>Steve maps the blue of the veins beneath Bucky’s skin, running a finger down the tender skin of his inner wrist. This, too, is beautiful. Bucky shivers, his pulse thrumming underneath Steve’s touch. “Yes,” Bucky says. “Stay.”</p><p>—</p><p>They get ready for bed, a dance of quiet hesitations. Bucky slips off his jacket. Steve pulls down his jeans. They watch each other, wary, contemplating tee-shirts. Bucky takes his off first. Steve relishes the half-silent gasp when Bucky sees him bare his skin. </p><p>Bucky turns off the lights. Steve wraps the covers around them and wraps Bucky in his arms. They’re both out in a matter of moments.</p><p>—</p><p>Steve wakes to the sound of Bucky crying out in vague distress. He’s out of bed and crouched low in a fight stance before his brain comes back online and remembers what Bucky told him. </p><p>Bucky’s twisted in the covers, asleep and clearly unhappy.</p><p>Steve — Steve doesn’t know what comes next for them. Bucky might run from this tomorrow. Steve might never see him again after tonight. But Steve knows one thing: if he only has this one night to ease Bucky’s nightmares, he’s damn well going to do it right. </p><p>Steve crawls back into bed and runs his hand up and down Bucky’s back. Bucky doesn’t wake, just grabs into Steve, still unconscious, muttering something. This is no good. Steve isn’t even helping. He will have to wake Bucky up. </p><p>Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder, as gentle as he can, and gives him a light shake. He wants to soothe, not startle. Bucky opens his eyes in an instant, muzzy and confused.</p><p>“Hey,” Steve says. “It’s okay. You’re safe.” </p><p>Bucky buries his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, and Steve holds him tighter. “Sorry I woke you up,” Bucky says, his voice rough (and kind of muffled).</p><p>“Fuck that,” Steve says. “Don’t apologize. I’m here.”</p><p>Steve will remember this: the way Bucky’s body sags in relief.</p><p>Bucky twists in his arms and looks up. He’s beautiful, illuminated only by the streetlights coming through the window. “You...really don’t give a fuck,” Bucky says, his voice all wonder.</p><p>“Who doesn’t have a past?” Steve tells him. </p><p>Steve will remember this, too: the moment when the light finds Bucky’s eyes. </p><p>This time, Steve kisses Bucky goodnight before they go to sleep — just a small kiss, sweet and tender, passing like a prelude, like a promise. </p><p>—</p><p>In the morning, when they are together, eating cold pizza in bed, and Steve cannot stop smiling, he says, “Will you go out with me?”</p><p>Bucky smiles, too, and then steals a bite of Steve’s slice even though he’s got a perfectly good slice of his own. Steve, sucker that he is now, just lets him. </p><p>“Yes,” Bucky says. “Yes.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you very much for reading! Comment or <a href="https://wintergaydar.tumblr.com/post/625744785189257217/fic-been-locked-and-youre-the-key-chapter-1">share this on Tumblr if you enjoyed!</a> </p><p>You might have noticed this story is part of a series: there's a lot more of this Steve and this Bucky in my docs. Subscribe to follow their adventures and <a href="https://wintergaydar.tumblr.com/post/625114191733407744/fic-been-locked-and-youre-the-key-chapter-1">come say hi to me on Tumblr!</a></p>
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